


Unframed reality

by Milacasserr



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-01-16 12:36:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18521662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milacasserr/pseuds/Milacasserr
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a college student, well, maybe not exactly a student because, in fact, he has not enrolled in the University, but he attends to several lectures and extracurriculars and he values knowledge very much just not as much as he values drugs. Professor Jim Moriarty's addiction, on the other hand, is trying to save lost causes while secretly hoping they are not really lost. But maybe this time Sherlock Holmes is beyond salvation.





	1. Chapter 1

When you are high everything blurs out of frame, nothing really matters, you get out of the equation and become a simple spectator in a world of unimportant matters.

The world is still the same, your problems have not gone anywhere, but you are absorpt out of the take, like a camera boy on a film making company, whose only preoccupation has to be following the action with the lens of his recording device, suddenly all the problems pass by you and become someone else's or nobody's at all and you are free to enjoy the blurry vision of your unframed reality.

It is not like some people think, nobody turns on a beauty filter on the world and all of a sudden everything looks and feels appealing to you. It is more like you no longer care about the shit hole you get yourself in, for the drugs you need to stop caring about the shit hole you are getting in.

That's how I met Jim Moriarty.

I don't remember how I got here, I am hungover, my head pounds, I feel dizzy and heroin metabolites keep running up and down my bloodstream while I sit in one of the auditoriums of the university to which I pretend to go. I try to remember how much hours passed since I had my last fix, hopefully, less than I can roughly count.

All I know is that this morning I woke up on some stranger's settee and was already late to go find my chemistry lecture's auditorium, apparently, I found it since I am sitting in one. It is the beginning of the semester and the professor is really late.

You know when you are not high because suddenly the blurriness fades out and you are back in your dull and annoying reality.

Chemistry is my favorite subject, I plan to make a career out of it, worldwide famous heroin and methamphetamine maker, wouldn't that be a glorious outcome to my huge investment on unpaid classes and buying my weight worth of heroin for the last eight months? Anyway, that's the principal reason why I am still sitting in the auditorium when a quarter of the students have already bailed and a thick layer of sweat settles in and coats my forehead.

When I look at the clock I don't see seconds passing, or minutes, or hours even, I see the number of laps left before I start feeling the first withdrawal symptom.

"Sorry I'm late, traffic was a nightmare," a man with Irish accent speaks bringing me back to reality and I take my eyes off the big watch on the wall.

I look around and I am the only one left in the room. I check out the professor. He's young, maybe too young to pass as a college professor, he's not looking at the class, he walks straight to the blackboard and I take advantage of this to really check him out.

Tight skinny jeans, an even tighter white tee-shirt short enough to leave the waistband of his boxers at plain sight, suit jacket somewhere between the mess of books and papers and stuff he throws over the desk, right before he starts writing on the blackboard.

Definitely gay, not very organized and has a really low span of attention, low enough for him not noticing that the class is unusually quiet. I wonder how much time will pass before he notices he's only lecturing me.

"My name is James Moriarty, I'm your new advanced maths' professor, but you can call me Jim, " he explains with his marked accent, still facing the blackboard as he writes and highlights his name in giant calligraphic letters.

Maths.

Fucking unbelievable, I waited this long and this is not even Chemistry.

"Oh!" Jim says turning around all of a sudden, he buries his eyes into mine and I start wondering if I said that out loud, "we are alone."

"Fucking unbelievable," I repeat and Jim's eyebrows rise up.

He looks like the kind of polite professors that are always telling you to mind your language and then you find them in some pub cursing everyone after they drink half their first pint of beer.

"Excuse me, Mr—?" He falls silent waiting for my reply.

"I am not doing this," I say picking up my stuff and I start leaving the auditorium.

"I am talking to you young man, he stops me halfway to the door, he is in front of me and I don't understand how he got to where I am so fast, his hand is on my chest and his body is blocking my way out.

"What are you—, two fucking years older than me? Fuck off, young man," I retort pushing his hand aside.

Impulsiveness.

"I am gonna need your name," he answers, his face is serious and I feel like I am back at high school and I am being punished for visiting the toilets during class hours without permission.

I am tired, I need a fix, this discussion is dull and this professor a joke, this does not deserve my time.

"Sherlock Holmes," I respond, "can I go now?"

My hands start shaking and I clench my fists at my sides hoping this fool did not notice it.

Anxiety.

"You are not in my list of students," he says fixing his gaze on one of my fists for half a second, before he frowns looking back into my eyes, I realize he might not be a fool after all.

He knows.

"What—, do you have it memorized?" I try to divert the issue now settling down in his brain.

"As a matter of fact, yes, I have it memorized and you are not in my class," he replies, but his voice has lost determination and I know he is just trying to find a way to address the subject he now thinks is much more important than whether I am or not in his class.

"Well then James, I suppose that must only mean one thing," I start slightly interested in finding out if he has the guts to bring up the subject.

"Enlighten me."

"I'm a fallen Angel and I came here to save you," I let out the first stupid thought I have and wait for him to respond.

"Well then, go ahead and save me, Mr. Holmes," he whispers taking one of my fists in his hands.

"This is not my class," my voice trembles and I try to pull back.

"That is pretty much stated already, don't you think?" He forces me to extend my hand and proceeds to do the same with the other one.

My extended hands shake over his steady ones, he clicks his tongue and I jump surprised by the sudden sound breaking the silence.

Nervousness.

"There are other ways, you know?"

"Of doing what?"

"Distract yourself."

"Oh, but where is the fun in that, James?"

"If fun is what you want, I can help you with that."

"That sounds highly inappropriate professor Moriarty, are you flirting with a student?"

"Would it help you if I was?"

"Probably not."

"Well, even If I were, you are not my student anyway," I try to figure out if that means he was indeed flirting with me, but I can not concentrate enough to deduce him right now, "You are dismissed now Sherlock, " he drops my hands and walks out of the way.

My brain tells me I should stay and try to find out the meaning of this conversation, that it might start hunting me in some hours as soon as I try to sleep and insomnia gets the best of me, but I still follow my body impulses and walk out through the door.

My body needs heroin to function like my heart needs blood.

 


	2. Chapter 2

My van is parked relatively close to the building I'm in, I know this, not because I'm able to remember this kind of stuff when I'm in my current state of mind, but because my van hasn't moved from that parking spot since I bought it, I don't drive and the van is more of an optional dwelling for the few times I cannot find a stranger's settee to crash on at night.

I run before the cramps arrive and I'm no longer able to do it. I run until my muscles ache and my blood unusually clean boils inside my veins and then I run some more.

I stumble getting inside the back of my van, twenty minutes, a needle and a few grams of heroin later I resurge from it as a renovated man, a rush of energy boils through my body and before I notice it I find myself in one of the rehearsal studios in the campus. I am waiting for the drama professor and I feel like a hyper child told to wait sitting still on a chair while dessert is ready, except dessert never arrives, instead, advanced mathematics' professor James Moriarty crosses the door and an unexpected hope grows inside me that a team of rehab bruisers will follow after him, but they also don't arrive.

"If life was a play and the final act was your death would you stop midway or speed up to the end?" He asks and everyone in the room falls silent looking at him.

"The point of life is not living forever, it's doing something with it that will remain when you are gone," I say and all eyes turn to me.

"Care to elaborate further on that, Mr—.?"

I wonder if he really forgot my name in the few minutes that it took me to run from his class, get a fix, and come here. I finally decide, that if he had indeed forgotten my name, he does not deserve to know it, so I simply respond.

"The show must go on and it better be a fucking spectacular show, if it's gonna be the end of me."

Truth be told, I would not care if it was just another regular college play I died in, but all these people did not have to know that, right?

"That's true, the show must go on pals, what's the point of starting something if you are not going to carry it out?" Jim asks and for the first time since he walked in the room, he seems to notice there are more people in the studio apart from me and his eyes wander around instead of staring in my direction. "Think about it, what would happen if you woke up one day and your heart just decided to give up on pumping blood into your brain because it is just too much of an effort to go on?" 

I ponder over if I should overdose to stop my heart and try to answer that question from a knowing perspective or better ask one of the multiple people dying from cardiac arrests on a daily basis and I get to the conclusion that maybe the only option is actually the overdose, since all the other people are, well, dead. 

"We would die, " some muscled guy in the corner says and I have to bite my tongue so that the sarcastic comment fighting to leave my mouth doesn't.

No shit, genius.

"Today we are going to work in pairs, so find a partner and form a circle in the center of the studio.

I look around the room and I see the reflection of my weirdness in everyone's faces and how they try to avoid the freak who thinks the show must go on even when death is waiting for you at the end of the curtain call.

The group is not even and I stand there watching James approach me while I hope for someone, anyone at all to suddenly sprout from the wooden floor beside me and pair up with me. This is not a video game though, people don't respawn from the ground at will like sprouting daffodils and now mathematics slash drama professor James Moriarty stands in front of me with a hand extended towards me, bowing like some prince charming asking his princess to dance with him for the first time just two days before he marries her.

Remember what I said about how drugs do not act like someone is turning on a beauty filter over the world, well, forget that, I'm looking at James Moriarty bowing before me with a smirk on his lips and he looks like a entire different person when my brain is under the effect of the perfect amount of heroin.  But maybe it's just the fact that this time my eyes are fixing on his own and I'm not glancing at the door I want to escape through every five seconds.

I accept his hand and roll my eyes blank when he pulls it towards his lips and kisses my knuckles. This would maybe be weirder if we were not in a drama class and everyone in the room weren't trying to avoid looking in my direction.

"Okay people," Jim talks dragging me by my hand to the center of the room, " I'm sure you all noticed  the lack of something or better that I didn't do something  that I was supposed to do when I walked in, anyone knows what that is?"

I notice he doesn't let go of my hand when we are standing in the circle and when I try to set my hand free he just holds it tighter.

This is not weird at all.

"No one?" Jim asks again.

I know the answer, but I don't reply because I'm too busy pretending it's not weird that I'm holding hands with the professor in the middle of a room full of students.

He squeezes my hand and I pretend I don't know he knows I know the answer. He squeezes harder and I understand there is no point on pretending this is normal anymore.

"You didn't introduce yourself to the class, some of us must already  know you from other of your classes, but you are the new drama professor and we deserve to know what to call you, " I roll my eyes and tighten up my grip around his hand for no reason at all, I feel my knuckles going white from how much strength I'm putting into it but Jim's only answer is an almost imperceptible caress on the back of my hand with his thumb.

"Exactly, I didn't introduce myself to you and there is a reason for that, in this rehearsal studio I won't be who I am out there in the real world, today and with the help of the person you chose to pair up with, you are going to create a character and that's who you are gonna be every time you cross that door, you are no longer students or maybe yes you are if that's what you decide, be creative and don't mess up because if you do, you have to carry that mistake with you all the semester, now work on those characters and we'll have a round of introductions at the end of the class, " James explains and when he finishes he drags me to the further corner of the room. My hand hurts from all the time I've been clinging to his, I'm sure his hurts as well but he doesn't say anything about it and he keeps drawing soothing circles with his thumb over the back of my hand more persistently now that we are far from everyone's eyes, it ends up working and I let go of his hand, he doesn't.

We keep holding hands when he describes me as a new invented person, I'm a spoiled rich kid, I had it all in life, from the expensive toys to the designer clothes, the trips around the entire globe and the unloving parents who bought my love with expensive undeserved presents, I had numerous nannies on my childhood and was a regular guest in the most expensive but not equally efficient rehab facility of the country on my teenage and early adulthood, I like to self-harm to feel alive.

Drugs use is a form of self-harm and I see the hidden truth behind his words, I roll my eyes blank and it is my time to start off with his character.

I retrieve the freedom of my hand and he allows me to, probably because he doesn't want to mess with my creative process, but the truth is I am not creating anything, I'm analyzing him, he messed with my drugs and now I want to mess with his life. I want to make it real and personal, so I start reading him like I do it with my violin scores.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys please do let me know if you like this story and you want me to go on.


	3. Chapter 3

I look blankly at Jim while I try to access everything I already know about him, tiny little pieces I got from him when I was in no condition to focus on them, but that I still know because I saw them and now I can concentrate enough to analyze them.

 

To begin with, he is left-handed I saw it when he wrote his name down on the blackboard earlier today and when he stopped my scape with one hand at the auditorium's door, but I only come to realize it now, that I'm watching how Jim stretches his hand over and over because that's the hand he offered for me to grab and the hand I almost dislocated for no other apparent reason than the hell of it.

 

Gay, but that's like the elephant in the room, I could be going through withdrawal right now and still notice that. It cannot be used against him though, because it's so transparent and clear and just laying there in the open at plain sight, that it makes me be completely positive that it is in no way a pressure point but something he wears like armor.

 

He is unfocused, unpunctual and cares too much too fast. My proof? We have only known each other for the last two hours and he has already tried to talk me off the drugs he can't be certain I'm under the influence of.

 

He looks tired and I weigh up the possibility of him suffering from insomnia, but he smiles at me as I tear apart every detail of his glowing complexion and I remind myself he has been in a constant cheerful mood since I met him, so not insomnia then, partying all night maybe.

 

As I realize James was not stuck in the traffic this morning as he claimed and he was rather stuck in bed, I start  contemplating that he probably was stuck in that bed with some stranger he met the night before, or even worse, maybe he was in bed with someone that was not a stranger for him at all. I tilt my head to the side trying to understand why I'm focusing on such a trivial and unimportant matter and shake my hand in the air as if that was all my brain needed to move onto more important facts, it usually works for me, I push the thoughts away at will and bring them back if necessary, but for some reason this idea has settled in my brain and keeps bugging me like an annoying headache in the back of my head.

 

That's pretty much everything I get before James clears his throat probably feeling awkwardly self-conscious since I've been shamelessly staring at him without saying a word for several minutes now, he cracks his neck to the side when he realizes that's not going to be enough to make me talk and my eyes catch a glimpse of the silver chain hanging from his neck under his t-shirt. A flash of memory comes to me and I know exactly what's hanging from the chain, I saw it earlier that morning and now I have what I was looking for, some buttons to push on.

 

"Two brothers, you are the youngest and they are dead," Jim face flinches and I know that even when I made a bold guess with the age I'm right, "you were always the brains and they were the muscle, they died serving the country, soldiers, I personally don't understand why would anyone do something like that, give their lives for the motherland, like it gave a fuck if you did or not," I can see in Jim's eyes that he also doesn't understand, "your mother did her best to raise the three of you after your father abandoned you and now she is dead too," that came out harsher than I intended and I see his smile slowly fading away, "you are a siblingless orphan trying to overcome the fact that death always comes for everything you touch,"  the words leave my mouth before I can catch up with them and I regret it as soon as he stops looking at me.

 

"Time's up!" He yells and it takes me a second to understand he's not yelling at me, but trying to get everyone's attention, although it's all an excuse to hide his eyes that are filling with tears from me, his voice hoarse from the lump in his throat betrays him and I smile with no good reason, maybe I find it adorable that he is trying not to show weakness in front of me, maybe I like seeing that I managed to make him feel weak, "five more minutes, guys!" He looks back at me and his eyes have lost their light.

 

"Your name is Ryan Brook, you are an Irish actor who came to London looking for a way into theatre but ended up working as a drama teacher on a second-rate university in the heart of the city, you are broke and life isn't what you expected it to be," I state finally just for the sake of constructing the character I was asked for, knowing this university is far from my description and his salary far from being bad and I fold my arms over my chest and wait for him to reply.

 

"Ryan Brook sounds like a very bad porn star name and I refuse to go by it the rest of the semester, " is all he says, with his voice back to normal, "I'm going to call myself Richard."

 

I roll my eyes and try to discern what kind of name defines my character as a person, something posh I guess, but I don't come up with anything and decide to wait to see what's the name 'Richard' has in mind for me.

 

I give a lopsided look at Jim's right-hand clinging to the chain hanging from his neck as we stand in a circle listening to all the other couples in the room describing their banner made-up lives, with money, fame, love and everything they have ever wanted.

 

This is the perfectly boring life of worldwide recognized actress Alice Bloom.

 

This is the successful and predictable dreamed job of Frederick Martin.

 

This is the private jet of John Doe.

 

This is the 15th plastic surgery of Jane Doe.

 

Boring.

 

Boring.

 

Boring.

 

"This is Andrew Lockie Sherrinford," Jim says beside me, elbowing my ribs so I start talking about my character and it takes me a second to realize everybody else had already shared their imaginary lives with the group, while I pretended to listen and its just the both of us who are left to introduce ourselves, "Andrew—," he repeats and my nose wrinkles in disgust at the name he gave me, as I repeat it in my head, this time really listening to his really posh magnificence.

 

"If you are going to pronounce it do it right, my name is André accent à droite ignorant,"  I say turning to look at him with a sneer.

 

Everyone in the room gasp and I smirk in response, he wanted a posh brat, well he'll have it with all the crap that comes behind it.

 

Alors, André, qu'est-ce que tu attends? Faites-nous l'honneur de te présenter, si te plaît," He tells me with a sufficient smile knowing I didn't expect him to speak fluent French and I hate the fact that he isn't wrong about it because I didn't anticipate this.

 

"If I must," I shrug and Jim's description of my character start leaving my mouth word by word, I use the poshest accent I can manage and overall I sound like the  arrogant idiot with a pole up his ass I am supposed to be, for some reason this makes me think of my dear big brother, "I take bigs amounts of heroin to feel alive," I plainly and simply say when I finish my introduction and I feel Jim stiffing beside me probably because he was hoping until this moment that I would say weed or cocaine even.

 

"My name is Richard Brook, I am a drama teacher at this university, I was born in Dublin and since my salary is not that good, I compensate it by selling drugs to my students as an international drug cartel dealer, Monsieur Sherrinford here is one of my regulars," I see surprised and concerned faces all around the room, more than half of the people here think he just described himself truthfully just because it's a lie based on truths, I can guarantee that at least five of them will try to get drugs from James at least once during the semester and I can't help myself from hoping I'll be there to see it when it happens. 

 

The class is dismissed by Jim soon after that and I leave the rehearsal studio, complete rich twat attitude on before Jim has the chance of even thinking of stopping me.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me a while because I had a really busy week, but next one is half way in so I hope it will be out soon, I really value my readers opinion so don't be shy and tell me what you think about this.


	4. Chapter 4

I've been laying on the mattress I have in the back of my van for what could be hours, I truthfully cannot tell how long but it must be dark outside and it is starting to feel a little claustrophobic in here, however I don't make a single attempt to move and keep scrolling down my Instagram feed.

Fake happy faces.

Fake aesthetic meals.

Fake #blessed bullshit.

Same old insta-liars.

I have to admit there is something alluring about scrolling down this much bullshit, observing the amount of fake happiness in here makes me wonder if I would become happier myself by faking it, changing my usual morning shot of heroin for the perfect shot of my avocado toast.

Happy happy ordinary lives.

I've been going back and forth on stupid thoughts like these all afternoon, trying to deviate the fact that there is only one possible reason for me to even want to launch this app, that this reason has a proper name, wears tight clothes and has deep dark eyes. I also know I'm just a step away from stalking the man on the internet like the total freak I and everyone else know I am.

I'm about to type his name on the searching engine when I hear a knock on the door of the van.

"Sherlock, I know you are in there will you open up please?"

I don't move.

"Look I know this is weird and everything but at least let me know you have not been laying in there with a heroin overdose all afternoon, while I sat on a Bench waiting to see you leave the van.

I say nothing.

"I know I overstepped, made assumptions and judged you based on my own prejudices barely minutes after we met and that it was not my place or any of my business but—."

I open the door with a quick swipe and found him leaning against the van.

"I was trying to sleep but since you rather keep talking all night, let me ask you this, did you just confessed that you have been watching my van all afternoon like a proper stalker?"

"Pretty much, yeah, " he shrugs and smiles in my direction, I look at him with a completely blank expression.

"Well, I haven't OD'ed as you see, so, are we done h—?"

"Are you hungry?" He asks interrupting me and as much as I would like to say no, my stomach growls in response and his smile grows bigger.

To be honest I can't remember when was my last solid meal.

"Maybe," I shrug and his growing smile threatens to drive me insane.

"I know the best fish and chips downtown, fancy some?"

...

I recognize a gay bar before I even cross its doors, I spent most of my teenage days in places like this. Also, it's not like the bearded bouncer at the door isn't giving it completely away by staring at the ass of the guy in front of us as soon as he passes by him.

Jim grabs my hand when we walk through the door and I feel like he is stating to everyone here, that I'm with him, I don't mind to play by it, so in a swift move I make him drop my hand and hug him by his shoulders instead, he looks surprised but leans on me anyway, his arm slips between my back and my trench coat and his hand settles on my hip.

His hair tickles my jaw as we walk through the crowded place and some waiter finds us a booth to sit. For some reason, the waiter stares me down and I feel the need to do the same with him.

"Fish and chips for two, Sebby," Jim says interrupting our staring contest and I feel the incipient bubbling of a question forming on the tip of my tongue.

Why is Jim calling him that?

I have barely enough time to glance at the name tag on the waiter's vest and see that it reads 'Sebastian Moran' before James pulls me down onto the cushioned seat and the waiter disappears into the crowd.

I try to discern if this is a date or just an intervention, while some horny guys hammer the backrest of our seat in a heated kiss.

I decide this is not an adequate place to do an intervention and that realization only leaves me with the other possibility.

Why would a man like James Moriarty want to go on a date with someone like me?

Well for starters the human body is not designed for loneliness, I know this because no matter how much I enjoy being on my own I always go back to reach human company when talking to myself out loud goes overboard. James Moriarty knows this because he has suffered many losses and as far as I know is pretty much alone in the world now. Even Sebastian Moran now serving us our meals, while trying to drill a bullet hole in my forehead by staring me down must know this because it's human nature and we are not made for solitude. However, this doesn't change the fact that there are a hundred better possible candidates James could have chosen in this bar alone, including Sebastian Moran with all and his steroids grown muscles and his big fake smile.

And then there is the dopamine deficiency issue, long periods of loneliness cause a drop in the dopamine levels of the brain because depression and anxiety strike, when this happens I turn to drugs, normal people just eat a whole ice cream bucket and binge-watch the entire content of Netflix in one night.

I'm brought back to reality by the blinding light of a phone flash, I look up and I see James holding my phone up against my face.

"You looked so absorpt in your thoughts I didn't want to disturb you, but that was a moment that needed to be immortalized for posterity," Jim says while typing something on my phone. I blink jumping from his smile to his thumbs typing fast against the screen.

I don't have a phone lock since I left my house last year, without my brother around, it didn't seem like something necessary. Besides I'm not often surrounded by people, not drug sober people wanting to pry on my privacy more than they want drugs.

"Also, your Instagram profile looked so sad without a single picture and now it doesn't anymore, by the way, you are now following me, " James says sliding the phone back in my coat pocket.

I blink in his direction again and fight the urge I have to check my phone and see what he wrote in the description of the picture he just posted.

"These are on the house, " Sebastian states popping out of nowhere again with two pints of beer and I wrinkle my nose as he flashes a smile at James.

"Thanks, Sebby," Jim smiles back at him and I roll my eyes.

Will he leaves us alone at last?

"Give me a shout if you need anything, Jimmy, " he says before he leaves.

"Jimmy?" I ask before I can keep my tongue to myself.

"He likes calling me that, " James shrugs, "you can also call me that if you want."

"It might sound a little strange but I was convinced your name was Richard until now," I drop not willing to admit that the last thing I want to do is calling him by the nickname someone else gave him and Jim laughs.

I push my pint of beer towards him over the table, before I grab one of the fried fish strips in my plate and eat it.

"You don't like beer?" He asks in response.

"Not particularly fond of it, " I respond.

"Me neither to be honest, but Sebastian has been trying to get me into it since I first came to this pub and now I'm able to endure it, either way, I'm more into anything else than I am into beer," he tells me picking his pint up to sip on it.

I snatch it from his hands before the glass touches his lips.

"That's a little shitty of your Sebby, savvy?" I say and get up from my seat with the two pints of beers, I walk towards the bar and place them in front of the bartender.

"We didn't order these, " the bartender looks at me for a second without saying anything.

"I'm sorry Sr. What would you like to order?"

"Well, I'm not fond of alcohol, to be honest, but I think James is, I really didn't think this through, so, what do you recommend?" I look over my shoulder to our table for a moment and the bartender follows my gaze.

"James Moriarty?" He asks and I nod, "I know just what he likes, let me guess, the beers were a courtesy from Sebastian."

"Indeed."

"He doesn't change, " the bartender says shaking his head, "what are you having then eye candy?"

"Surprise me," I say and turn around leaning on the counter to have a full perspective of my surroundings.

The pub is dimly lit for costumers comfort and privacy I suppose. There is a dancefloor way in the back with color reflectors and smoke machines it's rather empty now, because it's still early, but I'm sure it will soon be full of grinding guys dancing in trios like any other gay pub in the UK and everywhere around the globe.

I wonder if James is expecting us to be part of one of those trios later, I'm not hoping on it but surely could play by it, if that was the case.

"Here you go hottie," the bartender taps my shoulder and I turn around to find a pair of mojitos over the counter.

It's going to be one of THOSE nights then, I smirk strolling back to our booth with the drinks after I thank the bartender, thinking—, what the hell? So be it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see I'm literally unable to let go of the first day so easily, stuff keeps happening right after they met and will keep happening for another chapter, hope that's not boring for you and who knows, maybe they'll move in together at dawn or whatever.


	5. Chapter 5

 

I wake up to the sound of an insistent knocking against the metal surface of my van's door. My head is pounding and there is a faint mumbling voice in the background but I can't discern what it's saying until I open the door of the van hoping at least the knocking will be over.

"Get your lazy ass out of the van it's almost noon," James says, practically pulling me out of bed since the mattress is about everything I can fit in the back of the Van, apparently he doesn't care that I'm only wearing a tee-shirt and a pair of flannel pants because I end up in the freezing weather outside anyway. I fight against his grip and fall back on my butt over the little patch of floor surface that separates my bed from the van's door, James seats beside me, "brought breakfast, eat, " he shoves a paper bag at my chest and then inspects the place I call 'home' over his shoulder.

He looks unimpressed but says nothing, for some reason I hope my drugs and syringes are not on display for him to see. I normally don't care about this, but I also never receive visits here, so why would I previously care.

I open the paper bag and there is a polystyrene tray full of syrup dampened chips, a paper-wrapped turkey and blue cheese sandwich and lemon flavored iced tea bottle. This is a really questionable choice of food to give someone if you don't know them all that well, I muse as I stuff my face with the dampened chips, because, who besides me puts syrup on chips anyway?

I consider for a second if I let this information slip last night and realize I don't remember what happened after my fourth or fifth drink. I blame this on the combination of both drugs and alcohol, I don't drink alcohol for a reason and that is drugs on their own make the cut for me, so I don't need it.

James stares intently at me as I continue to stuff my face with the food he brought me and I can feel a slight blush crawling up the back of my neck.

"So you play the violin," he points out and I know he saw the open case in the further corner of the van when he scanned my improvised dwelling a second ago.

"I do," I reply and stop eating to observe him.

"I like violins," he simply says, "are you any good?" He asks and I try not to feel offended by this.

"Why are you doing this?" I inquire not bothering to answer him.

"Asking about your talents?"

"All of it, the questions, the food, the drinks, all the... Care-," I can't help but turn up my nose at the simple expression leaving my mouth and the words my brother used to tell me growing up, start playing on repeat at the back of my skull.

_All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

"Because we're just alike, you and I," James starts and for a moment I try to discern what he means by that, " except you're boring!" He finishes, booping my nose and suddenly my mind is blank and all I can think about is the blood consuming all the paleness left in my neck and advancing towards my cheeks.

He chuckles still looking at me intently and I'm unable to think anything remotely clever to say, so I don't.

"You should see your face right now," he tells me laughing.

"Well, I can't see it, can I?" I make my best attempt at irony but it doesn't come out wholeheartedly.

"You look like you are in shock, it's just human contact, Sherlock, it's perfectly normal, you know?"

I decide I'll just ignore his remark and continue eating my food.

"Well, hurry up then, surely you have some classes you don't want to miss, don't you?"

"I've got advanced mathematics," I say after a moment of consideration, pondering whether I should tell him or not I'm not really enrolled in this university.

"Thought we were clear about the fact that you are not a student in my class," he says, stealing one chip from my tray and scrunching his nose when the syrup coating the chip drips down his fingers, he eats it anyway and flashes me a smile.

I feel the need to look away when he starts licking his fingers one by one, but I still hold his suggestive gaze.

"And what will you do? Kick me out if I show up?" I ask and he shakes his head in a childish way, fingers still in his mouth and I can only find this far more suggestive, "how did you enjoy my chip soaked syrup?" I inquire to conceal the fact that all the blood that was previously rushing up to my face is now pumping down to my crotch.

"I have to admit it's surprisingly good," he shrugs finishing cleaning his fingers from the syrup.

I push him out of the van when I finish my food, with the vague excuse of getting a change of clothes, when all I'm worried about is having to endure another of his classes without a single ounce of heroin in my bloodstream.

...

This becomes our routine, for the next weeks, I attend his classes and pretend I am interested at all in advance mathematics, although I have to admit he teaches advanced maths like it was preschool mathematics, he's amazingly good at what he does, a proper genius if you will and yet I'm a proper genius too and mathematics are not difficult to me, just outstandingly boring. In exchange for this James pretends he doesn't see I'm pretending and turns a blind eye on the fact that some times I just spend the entire class staring at his ass when he is writing on the blackboard with those tight jeans of him.

I no longer bother to find a stranger's settee to crash at night and find myself anxiously waiting for his morning visits for breakfast and lightly flirtatious conversation, he keeps telling me we have to stop running into each other like this, even when he clearly plan every single one of our encounters with extreme care. It shows in the home-cooked meals he brings every morning, all of the meals I one way or another admitted to him I was keen on.

I can not agree more with him about the fact that we have to stop meeting in my messy van that now more than ever suffers the consequences of me sleeping in it on a daily basis.

So on the third Friday morning since I met James Moriarty, I wake up before dawn, pay a rapid visit to the student dormitories building a block away from where my van is parked to take a quick shower and get ready to pay Jim a visit at his flat. I know where he lives since week one but I have never been there because I didn't accept the first time he asked me to go and then he probably didn't want to push it so he never asked again.

I can't cook in my van so I have to visit the nearest coffee shop on my way to Jim's flat, I know he loves tea so I buy two sixteen ounce cups of his favorite brand and some pastries, I won't even try to pretend I'm a cook, he would know I'm lying anyway.

The security guard of the building is Italian, I tell him I want to surprise my boyfriend with a special breakfast and he doesn't even ask me what is his flat and let me pass. So much for private security.

James mentioned the number of his flat once and I hope remembering it correctly when I take the lift to the sixth storey, the door with his number is white and impersonal as it is the rest of the building, I ring the bell an wait for Jim to open, except he doesn't.

Instead, Sebastian Moran opens the door, only wrapped waist-down in a towel.

"I think it is for you Jimmy," he shouts over his shoulder with a smirk.

"Who is it? Jim asks walking into my view dressed but with dampened hair.

I'm not stupid I can put two and two together, so I shove the teacups and the pastries bag onto Sebastian's chest and run away.


End file.
